The Last December
by lavaignited
Summary: John says goodbye. One-shot. *Johnlock. *Pure angst. Inspired by the song "Cold Water" by Damien Rice :)


_I sit in my study, thinking tirelessly on a case into the late hours of the night, as I'm wont to do._

_When you told me to come to bed earlier, I was too focused on a certain serial killer._

_Then I receive a text message, and I go to invite you to join me for the ride._

_But when I find you in our room, you don't seem up for an adventure._

_So I kiss you on the forehead to bid you the sweetest of sleeps._

I jump out of my car, flushed with worry, scarcely remembering getting out of bed or the ride over. I run my fingers through my hair and take a deep breath, registering the police tape and bits of charred metal I see all over the scene. There's at least two dozen people present, some of whom are the police, some are paramedics and others are pedestrians that must have been drawn by the rumble. I first look for DI Lestrade who'd called me at this late hour to inform me that Sherlock had been hurt, and that I'd need to come and see him. I've forbidden my mind from jumping to the worst possible conclusion, which it tends to do, and I dutifully march over to the detective inspector, who appears to have been waiting for me.

Lestrade greets with me with more solemn and soft a countenance than I'd ever seen on him. "John," he begins, shaking his head. Already, my handle on the situation is faltering. "John, we can't move him... I thought- I told them that we should let you speak with him, before-"

"What happened? Where is he?" I ask, raising a hand to silence him.

He scratches his nose and looks back at the crime scene. "The other bastard, he had a bomb. Blew his car up with himself inside." He spits out with a snarl. I stumble, feeling as if I'd been punched in the chest. "John, I'm so sorry." He continues, looking back at me and noticing my distress. _No._ It couldn't be that bad. Sherlock is strong; resilient. I remind myself that I'm a doctor, and Sherlock's my friend, and I could fix it. I can fix whatever happened. I know I could. I take a deep breath and try to shake off my horrible imaginings of his injury before I respond. "Where is he?" I ask urgently, deepening my voice to mask my concern. Lestrade looks at me woefully and with plain reluctance gestures to the grass past a collection of scattered debris, where my heart slinks into the pit of my stomach to behold my friend whose right side is violently pinned beneath the greater part of a car engine.

"Oh, God…" I whisper. "Oh God, _no_."

I push my way through the crowd of police officers and bystanders, ignoring the numbness of my legs and the lack of will from my body to move forward. I feel my face heating up. The ringing in my ears becomes unbearable and I just keep thinking, "_Please_, God. _Please_ don't let him die." If ever God should listen to a prayer of mine, let it be now. Let it be for him.

I see a few feet in front me the shining black pavement with a spot of pink; inert, cold. My heart melts into a burning dew which trickles down into my core, and forms a hideous knot. I feel ready neither to face nor accept what I am seeing, or what Lestrade has just told me. _I told them we should let you speak with him_, he'd said. I want to run away, but my body makes the best of my childish instincts and I duck under the tape. I slow down as I approach my friend, who hasn't seemed to have registered my arrival. His eyes are not quite shut and his left hand is almost blackened with blood on his stomach. I lose my breath for a moment and a painful jolt of electricity surges through my body as I fear I may have arrived too late. Then, slowly and obviously with great effort, he turns his head to look at me and the smallest but sweetest smile finds his lips. A quiet sound that resembles "John" escapes his mouth and I shakily kneel down beside him. My eyes are threatening to water, but I know that it's important for me to be strong. I don't try to smile at him, because I know he'd recognize it as phony, so I just try to muster as calm-sounding a voice as I can. "Sherlock." I whisper. I lean forward, one of my hands moving gently to the sleeve of his coat and the other to his heart.

He looks me in the eyes and for the first time I don't feel uncomfortable that he's trying to read me. His dark hair is matted with blood and burn marks cover his white face. The whole scene is a gory mess, and I feel as if I might throw up, but I hold him, nonetheless, desperately trying to hide the quiver of my lip and to put together something to say to comfort him. Sherlock faces his head away from me in slow motion and grimaces as he lets out a pained squeak. "Sherlock!" I whisper, immediately regretting the amount of concern I'd let slip in my voice. Sherlock's face relaxes as he lays there, eyes closed, and quietly quips, "Good God, is that all you're going to say?" I smile, and it almost feels genuine.

A thousand things run through my mind to ask him all at once, but none that I say._ How did this happen? Why didn't you tell me where you were going? Why couldn't you have just woken me up?_ None of it felt right to ask, though. None of it felt important. I instinctively move down to his forehead and very gently kiss it, surprising even myself. He slowly opens his eyes and looks up at me, his mouth slightly agape.

"Thank you..." he sighs, his eyebrow twitching. "It's cold." He murmurs, his face falling as he stares at me intently as if to ask something of me. "I can't feel my right leg. I'm dizzy, so I must have lost a lot of blood- of course, look at me." he moans, bringing his eyes back to the sky and clenching his jaw. "And then there's the fact that you're here. The paramedics examined me but they didn't take me anywhere and the police have called _you_. Why would Lestrade call the most important man in the world to me-" he pauses abruptly and takes a sharp inhale through his teeth, his face tight with pain. "The most important person in the world to me… unless it was to say goodbye?" He adds, his voice dropping in tone as he looks confoundedly at his surroundings. "And I'm so bloody… _afraid._" he says in an almost voiceless stream of air. His face has begun to quake, and water fills his misty eyes. He purses his lips before once again locking his vision on me and adding in an almost unintelligibly hushed tone: _"I'm about to die."_

I breathe in through my nose, holding his arm a bit tighter, wanting desperately for him to think that I'm not afraid. "Sherlock. You… you are the bravest man that I know." I say sternly, my throat straining with each word. I find it difficult to move closer to him. My limbs feel hollow. "It's okay to be afraid, but I'm here. I'm right next to you."

Sherlock blinks and tears fall down his dry, burnt face. His breathing is impossibly choppy and he softly tells me, "I know you are." He forces his trembling lips to close and takes a deep breath before continuing. "I want to tell you that you've made me impossibly happy, John. I didn't even- I'm not sure I knew what it was to be happy before I met you." He says. I completely trust that he means what he is saying, for he delivers it so earnestly. There was never any room for phoniness when Sherlock Holmes spoke to me. I find that I can no longer fight my emotions, for never before had he shown me such vulnerability. "Every bit of bravery you think you see in me, it all comes from you."

I try to hide my tears, but there's no use. He sees them as they stream down my face, and suddenly he appears to look through me. He becomes a bit less tense and I speak, fearing that if I don't he may let go before I'm ready for him to leave me. "Sherlock Holmes." I gently assert, and he focuses on me once more. "I know you, and you, you will tackle death with the same tenacity as you do life. And not a second of it will be _boring_, you understand?" I tell him, with reassurance in my voice.

"I should hope not. But whatever does come of me, I doubt there'll be very many murders to solve." He says, in a tone of facetious disappointment. When I crack a smile, he guffaws, as emphatically as one can with a third of his body pinned beneath a chunk of metal.

"I see that you and I will never learn that it's not appropriate to laugh at a crime scene." I say. I regret my word choice as soon as I say it, but it makes him laugh again, which for some reason, makes me cry even harder.

All the falsities slip away, and I speak the words that had hid beneath every thought of mine throughout the conversation, and throughout every moment in Sherlock Holmes's presence since I'd realized it was true: "I love you."

"I love you too." He responds immediately. He sniffles and shoots me a sleepy smile which he deliberately trades for a more earnest visage. "Never forget how important you are, John. Never forget how much strength you have. Be brave."

"I know."

"Don't waste your talent. _Observe_, John."

"Of course."

"I love you."

"I love you, too." I whisper, my eyes burning with my salty tears to the point where I'm hardly able to see him. There is a moment of heavy silence before Sherlock says with a voice simultaneously dripping with fear and courage, "Don't leave me."

Out of necessity, I grip his arm and lie down on the pavement beside him, in front of all the bystanders and all Lestrade's men. Sherlock lets out the faintest of laughs and makes no protest. We stare at the stars for an eternity and underneath the metallic smell of blood I find Sherlock's smoky sweet scent and I relax a bit. I take Sherlock's hand in mine with the greatest of care, entwining my fingers with his, and he squeezes ever so lightly. His shining eyes are locked on the night sky. He has a glow of euphoria, and the tears are flowing down the side of his face and unto the ground. I look away from him at the stars above me, so as to see what he is seeing. I'm not afraid to take my eyes off of him, because I can hear and feel his breathing now, which I unconsciously begin to match with my own.

Our breathing becomes slow and in sync, and we lie there together, two lovers, breathing as one. I understand then what it means to feel him next me in a way that I could never appreciate before. Suddenly there's a shift, and I bite my lip, caressing the side of his hand with my thumb. I don't want to look him. I just close my eyes and our breathing feels like floating, and I imagine that we're two angels, rising into the night, and we're on our way to some place beautiful.

He begins to fall away, and I squeeze my eyes shut and hope for the impossible. I tell myself that I'm not afraid, reminding myself to heed his advice…

And then he isn't breathing at all.

The cold December air fills my lungs, and I allow it to linger there for a moment as I tighten my grip on his hand. I remain on the ground, still, in his arms and in his blood, praying for the strength to let him go. _Be brave._

When I open my eyes, it has begun to snow.


End file.
